


The Smithfield Miracle

by Ellis_Hendricks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mild angst but mostly fluff, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Holmes is bad at relationships (for now)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:35:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21934579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: Six months on from the events of Sherrinford, Sherlock accompanies John to Mike Stamford’s retirement do - with an ulterior motive. But as the evening wears on, is he going to find the courage to act on that motive?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 57
Kudos: 171





	The Smithfield Miracle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geekmama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/gifts).



> So, it’s six months since I posted my last fic, even though this one has been buzzing around my brain on and off for most of that time. I’m definitely rusty, and this fic bears all the hallmarks of a hastily-written, completely un-beta-read piece of work - but I hope it’s still an enjoyable read (or at least a distraction from festive insanity).
> 
> Merry Christmas to geekmama, for whom this is an eleventh-hour gift - but also to all of the Sherlollians out there, whether you celebrate Christmas, something else, or nothing at all :-)

The taxi pulled up opposite their intended destination, and John gave him an entirely unnecessary point and nod in the direction of the building across the street, as though Sherlock could have somehow overlooked the several conversations they had had - both in person and via a series of tedious text exchanges - about their plans for the night. John seemed to be under the impression that either he was afflicted by short-term memory loss (perhaps forgivable given how hard Rosie had - hopefully accidentally - clobbered Sherlock with a wooden maraca the previous day), or somehow fundamentally misunderstood the nature of the evening. 

Or, possibly more likely, Sherlock conceded, that John just didn’t believe that he was going to turn up. 

“Here we go!” John declared, brightly, as they stepped out of the cab. 

It hadn’t escaped Sherlock’s notice that John had a) paid the cab driver without question, and b) done so without even the merest of irritated glances in his direction. In fact, the cab had been John’s idea which, given that Barbican Tube station was only a few minutes away and he was always going on about his overdraft, was an unusual state of affairs. He must have decided that it would be harder for Sherlock to escape from a moving vehicle than it would for him to give John the slip in a busy Tube station on a Friday night. Sherlock was about to begin explaining to John why he was entirely wrong about this - there were at least five different ways he could think of for escaping from a moving taxi, and only two of them involved some degree of injury to John - when his friend started speaking again.

“God, it’s years since I’ve been in here!” he said, as they crossed the road to the grey-bricked building on the corner of the street, which declared itself to be The Butchers Hook and Cleaver. It was hard to take a liking to a place that so brazenly abused the apostrophe, but nonetheless it seemed strangely familiar to Sherlock.

“Didn’t this used to be a bank?” he queried, as John opened the door and the clamour and hum of voices, mixed with the warm fug of beer wafted out to greet them. 

“I have no idea, mate,” John replied, maintaining a breezy tone that was nevertheless intended to shut down this particular conversational avenue. “Come on, let’s see if we can find Mike and the others.”

Sherlock frowned, and cast his gaze around as he followed John into the busy pub. It was definitely familiar...

“Armed robbery, February 1999!” he said suddenly, with a deep feeling of satisfaction. That would have niggled away at him all evening, which, given, well, certain things, would have been incredibly inconvenient. 

“What?” John replied, turning around and screwing up his nose in confusion.

“Bank robbery,” Sherlock repeated. “The third of five in the Smithfield area in late 1998, early 1999. I read about them when I was at university and wrote to Scotland Yard offering my insight and my services, but they were frankly rather dismissive - even when I made the gesture of turning up in person to assist the investigation.”

John gave a short laugh.

“Yeah, I can imagine the gesture they made to you in return,” he said. “Anyway, I thought you were still blowing up chemistry labs in the late nineties?”

Sherlock replied with a small smile. 

“It’s good to have outside interests,” he said. 

They fought their way through the hordes of after-work drinkers, John occasionally pausing to stand on tiptoes in order to better survey the crowd before moving on. Sherlock was doing the same, but for different reasons. Eventually, John caught sight of Mike Stamford, apparently on his way back from the bar; he waved as best he could for a man holding a pint of lager and a glass of white wine, the rosy glow of his cheeks and nose suggesting that he had put in a couple of hours at The Butchers Hook and Cleaver already.

“John! Sherlock!” he beamed. “Great to see you both. Really glad you could make it!”

“Of course!” John replied. “Wouldn’t miss it. Just can’t believe you’re actually...retiring. Bloody hell.”

“Well, not completely retiring, I’m not that ancient. Anyway, the wife wouldn’t let me get away with that. But retiring from Bart’s, anyhow,” Stamford replied, setting his drinks down on a ledge near where they were standing. “Change of pace and all that.”

Sherlock continued to shoot occasional glances across the bar area, trying to ignore the tightening knot of worry in his stomach that perhaps they had arrived too late.

“Sherlock.”

He turned his attention back to John.

“What?”

Apparently, Stamford had said something to him that he had missed entirely. John was frowning at him with mild censure.

“I was just saying that you boys both look well,” Stamford said, cheerfully.

Sherlock nodded his polite acceptance of the compliment. It was odd - people kept saying that to him lately, most notably his mother, who didn’t seem to tire of telling him how well he looked, and could barely disguise how much it pleased her. 

“Well, I’m cycling a bit more, trying to eat a bit better - and Sherlock’s kicked a massive drug habit, so yeah, I think we’re doing pretty well,” John grinned. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was at times like this he wished he hadn’t given up smoking, too - he’d only done that to score points off Mycroft (well, that was mostly why), but it was surprising how often it felt as though he was the losing party.

“D’you remember when we first used to come here?” Stamford said, glancing around. “Our first year residency. Last orders after a double-shift on the wards.”

“Or waiting outside for the pub to open so we could get a breakfast pint after a night-shift,” John added. “God, I don’t know how we did it.”

“Bit different back then,” Stamford added, with a laugh. “Back then the only food you could get was a bag of crisps - now there’s bloody hummus on the menu, and something called a ‘pie tasting board’.”

“Actually, I’m starving,” John said, peering at the blackboard menus above the bar. “You don’t fancy sharing a pie tasting board, do you, Sherlock?”

“A kind offer, John,” he replied. “But sadly I’m going to have to decline. Unlike you, none of my trousers come fitted with an elasticated waist.”

This comment earned him a predictable glower from John, and a bark of laughter from Stamford.

“I’ll get you both a drink,” he said, turning back to the bar and batting away John’s protests that they should be getting him a drink. 

It was when watching Stamford leave that Sherlock’s gaze finally landed on its target. Immediately, that knot in his stomach was replaced with a sensation of what felt like elation mixed with moderate terror. He hadn’t wanted a drink until now, his mouth so dry it had become essential. 

“It was surprisingly easy to get you here,” John said, causing Sherlock to whip around so quickly he nearly lost his balance. Apparently, this spectacle hadn’t been lost on John, who had now clearly seen what - or rather, whom - Sherlock had seen. 

“Mike’s nice,” Sherlock replied quickly. “I like Mike. I’ve always liked him; he’s not an idiot.”

The good thing about this, Sherlock reflected with satisfaction, was that it was actually true, too.  
“Just think,” John continued. “If I’d have gone back to medicine instead of playing nanny to the world’s only consulting toddler, I too could be retiring at fifty-one.”

“Hm,” Sherlock replied, vaguely taking in the pejorative sentiment being levelled at him.

There was a pause, and John cleared his throat quietly.

“I see Molly’s here,” he said. 

Sherlock had heard that tone before; it was loaded and dangerous. 

“Yes,” he replied, neutrally - or so he hoped. 

“Shall we go and say hello?” John suggested.

Sherlock felt his throat constrict slightly.

“Might not be the best time,” he said, with a dismissive wave. “She’s talking to some woman; it would be rude to interrupt.”

John gave a chuff of laughter.

“Since when has that ever been a concern of yours?” he said. “And you do know that’s Mike’s wife she’s talking to?”

This at least gave Sherlock a valid excuse to turn around and pretend to further scrutinise the middle-aged woman engaged in conversation with Molly. He turned back to John with a shrug.

“Sherlock, you’ve met her at least four times!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Was she of strategic importance to a murder investigation?” he asked. John’s response was to sigh and fold his arms. “Then I honestly don’t know why you’re surprised,” Sherlock concluded. 

He spent the next few minutes ensuring that his eyes didn’t stray from his current line of vision, didn’t succumb to the prickling temptation to check over his shoulder and be sure that nothing had changed. That she was still there; that he still had time to...do or say whatever it was he might eventually get around to doing or saying once he could figure out what he wanted and how to go about it. John cleared his throat pointedly, at which point Sherlock realised he’d been drumming his fingers on the table top. 

“Is that code?” John asked, with a look of slight impatience. “Because I’m pretty sure she isn’t going to hear it from over there.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest on a number of levels, but went no further, because Stamford had bustled back to their table and was planting two pint glasses down in front of them. The unidentified drink, the same as whatever Stamford had bought for himself earlier, was an unnaturally dark, peaty colour, putting Sherlock in mind of the Thames at low-tide. God, was this the price of being sociable? 

“I’ll just take this over to the wife, and I’ll be with you in a minute,” Stamford said, picking up the glass of wine he’d put down earlier, and squeezing back through the crowds of drinkers. 

This time, there was a viable excuse to look, and Sherlock managed to catch another glimpse of Molly through the crowd, saw her smile at Stamford’s approach, accept a kiss on the cheek, and say something that Sherlock had no chance of hearing. But then Mike must have said something about his and John’s arrival, because both Molly and Mike’s wife looked over in their direction, and suddenly - ludicrously - Sherlock felt incredibly exposed. And for a second, Molly was looking at him, just at him. He was aware of John giving a little wave of greeting beside him, and Sherlock just about managed a stiff sort of smile in her direction before Molly returned to her conversation with whatshername. This was torturous. 

“Sorry, lads,” Mike said, returning to the table and picking up his pint glass. “Let’s get stuck in, eh?”

“What...is this exactly?” Sherlock asked, giving his own drink a sceptical look and a suspicious sniff.

“Newcastle Brown Ale!” Stamford replied, as though those three words explained everything. “Come on, you can’t say you’ve never had it before?”

“Sherlock’s not much of a beer drinker,” John put in. “My stag do brought that fact into pretty stark relief.”

Ignoring his friend, Sherlock took a tentative sip and immediately recoiled in the most dignified manner that he could.

“Well, I suppose it’s reassuring that it tastes as bad as it looks and smells,” he said, once the acrid taste had mostly subsided. “Thank you, Mike, for this culturally-enriching experience.”

“My pleasure, Sherlock,” Stamford replied, good-naturedly. “Plenty more of it where I’m going.”

Sherlock suspected that this should mean more to him than it did. Probably another one of those ‘conversations’ with John that he had tuned out of in favour of mentally cataloguing his sock drawer, or working through the periodic table backwards. 

“Mike’s heading back up north,” John said. He may as well have just added which you already know, the subtext was so deafening. 

“Friend of mine’s got a GP practice in a little market town up in Northumberland,” Stamford added, sipping from his pint. “Lovely place. Asked me to join him, both working part-time. Now the kids have grown up, and the youngest one’s off at university, well, it’s a chance for Helen and me to actually spend some time together. Just hope she finds she still likes me after all this time!”

“Sounds really nice,” John said, raising his glass slightly off the table in salute. “I haven’t been that far north since my army training.”

“Well, you’re welcome to come and visit once we’re settled, you and Rosie,” Stamford continued. 

“The salmon fishing’s meant to be great up there, isn’t it?” John said. Sherlock frowned; since when had John shown any interest in fishing? Maybe it was some sort of middle-aged contagion, like the cycling and the appalling kale-based smoothies. 

“I’m fairly certain we have salmon in London, John,” he said.

“Yeah, in Waitrose,” John retorted. “Not leaping up the Thames.”

“Invitation’s open to you, too, Sherlock,” Stamford continued. “I can’t guarantee you any sensational murders, but we do have decent wi-fi, even up in the wilds of the north.”

John smirked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was sacrificing a lot this evening for the opportunity to...well, he wasn’t sure yet he was sacrificing it for, but still. 

“I mentioned it to Molly, too,” Mike said. “In fact, why don’t you come together?”

Sherlock’s whole body went rigid for moment, uncertain whether he had heard correctly. John’s head was tilted to one side, his eyebrows raised, and Sherlock was sure his friend was leaning in slightly in anticipation of where this might be heading. 

“W-why would we do that?” Sherlock replied, resting his elbow on the table in the vain hope that this would somehow convey casual indifference. 

He witnessed an exchange of glances between Mike and John, Mike’s clearly a question, and John’s a very feeble attempt at feigning innocence. Sherlock fired him an accusatory look; he dreaded to think what John had been saying, but the man wouldn’t recognise discretion if it rugby-tackled him in the street.

“Ahh, howay, man, Sherlock!” Stanford cried, dramatically, planting his pint back on the table. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” said Sherlock, mildly alarmed.

“Oh, I’d forgotten,” John put in. “The more Mike has to drink, the more Geordie he gets.”

“Is that all?” Sherlock frowned. “I thought he might be having a stroke, or something.”

“Hey, it’s none of my business,” Mike continued. “But I reckon it’s about time you stopped being so bloody stubborn.”

“Perhaps next time you could stop at ‘it’s none of my business’, hm?” Sherlock replied, tartly. 

Any suggestion of hostility from Sherlock seemed to be lost on Mike, who rambled on for a bit longer about his retirement plans before thanking them again for coming, and then swayed off in the direction of some very boring-looking suit-clad hospital administrators in the corner.

“Come on!” John said suddenly, draining his glass. “Let’s go.”

“Go? Go where?” Sherlock was vacillating between relief and panic. 

“To say hi to Molly,” John replied, confirming Sherlock’s fears.

“Yes, but she’s talking to someone,” Sherlock replied, noting that Stamford’s wife seemed to have been replaced by another woman in her late-forties, this one wearing some sort of vast crocheted cape.

“Yeah, but even I can deduce that she isn’t enjoying it,” John said, starting to forge a path through the throng. “So we might be doing her a favour. And besides -” - he looked over his shoulder at Sherlock - “we both know that Molly Hooper is the real reason you were willing to come along tonight.”

“I think perhaps I should go back to Baker Street,” Sherlock said quickly, choosing to swerve the topic altogether. “I’m still not entirely convinced by that babysitter. You know, Rosie-”

“-is completely fine,” John said flatly. “I didn’t find the woman on Gumtree, Sherlock - she’s a mixed martial artist for one thing, and she usually looks after the children of visiting heads of state. Mycroft is doing me a serious favour.”

Sherlock gave a short grunt. His brother seemed much more inclined to do favours, serious or otherwise, since the events of Sherrinford, now nearly six months ago. Funny what guilt could do, even to Mycroft Holmes. 

Reluctantly, Sherlock followed John through the bar, his traitorous heart thumping noticeably more loudly with every step. This was ridiculous. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen Molly in the last six months - he had, on a fairly regular basis, in all the usual places; the lab, the morgue, John’s flat when she was collecting or dropping off Rosie. It had just been so...insubstantial, so frustratingly polite and friendly. Once upon a time, friendly would have been good - in fact, John would probably have congratulated him for it - but the more time that passed, the more Sherlock felt he was letting things slip from his grasp. But at the same time, he was aware of the utterly self-defeating efforts he made to ensure that he and Molly were never truly alone; not for any significant length of time, anyway, or in any situation that could lend itself to a meaningful conversation. He had tried to convince himself it was for Molly’s benefit, a desire not to cause her any further discomfort. 

As they neared the table at which Molly and her companion were standing, Sherlock was gratified to see Molly’s attention drift from her current conversation to their arrival - and more than just pleased to see them, her whole face seemed to light up, and she made no attempt to disguise it. It was hard to keep his composure in the face of such a greeting. 

“Hi,” Molly smiled. She was wearing her hair loose, held in place at one side with a tortoiseshell hair-grip. “I wasn’t sure you’d be coming. It’s nice to see you,” she continued, adding, with a slight blush “...both.” 

“Good to see you, too, Molls,” John replied. He jerked his head in Sherlock’s direction. “This one wasn’t as reluctant as I thought he’d be. I’m half-expecting a murder to take place at any second.”

“Well, let’s not rule that out,” Sherlock told him, dryly, earning an unexpected - politely suppressed - laugh from Molly.

“Um, sorry, this is Caroline,” Molly said, gesturing to the woman beside her. “Caroline, these are my friends - Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

John responded with some sort of perfunctory courteous greeting, before Sherlock heard himself say, “Ah yes, Caroline. How is the hedge these days?”

Where had that come from? Clearly, both John and Caroline were curious to know as well, particularly John, who was now looking at him with a measure of both bewilderment and concern. Molly’s face was harder to read, but she certainly looked slightly uncomfortable. 

“I think I might head off, actually, Molly,” Caroline said, shooting a somewhat icy glance in Sherlock’s direction. 

Goodbyes were said, and no sooner was the woman out of earshot than John had rounded on Sherlock.

“Hedge, Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt himself flush slightly, and tried to will it away. Again, unsure of whereabouts in the recesses of his Mind Palace the information was coming from, he blurted out, “Used to work with Molly, always banging on about her hedge...wasn’t she?”

Molly was still looking at him curiously; clearly, he wasn’t the only one trying to figure this out.

“Her neighbour’s hedge, but yeah,” Molly said, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Did...did you meet Caroline? You know, before?”

At that moment, it dawned on Sherlock. And though he had sworn to himself that he would never again lie to Molly, it really was best for both of them at this point.

“Yes, probably, must have done,” he agreed quickly. 

It would do neither of them any good for him to confess right here in the middle of the pub that this unearthed nugget of knowledge came from having read and more or less memorised Molly’s short-lived blog, which he had discovered during his two-year exile. A blog that had caused Sherlock to accept that there was a side of Molly Hooper that he hadn’t really known or previously cared about particularly; words that made him see himself differently, too, although he would never have admitted that. 

“Caroline left Bart’s nearly eight years ago, but she always seems to turn up for leaving dos,” Molly said, checking over her shoulder before adding, with a wince, “She’s awful.”

Sherlock tried to think of something to say, something conversational and at least fifty-per-cent less weird than his previous utterance, but his supposedly brilliant brain wasn’t cooperating. Not practiced in this area, he conceded. Although the way he realised he was looking at Molly reminded him that it wasn’t really his brain that was making the big decisions right now.

“So who’s watching Rosie tonight?” Molly asked. “Martha’s in Brighton, isn’t she?”

“Some sort of black-ops babysitter,” Sherlock replied. 

“Someone who comes highly recommended,” John revised. 

“It seems like ages since I last saw her,” Molly said. “Feel like a bit of a rubbish godmother lately. How’s she been doing?”

John launched into a detailed update on his daughter’s latest achievements, going so far as to pull out his phone and show Molly some videos of Rosie’s stuttering but determined attempts at walking. Sherlock, of course, had seen these videos before - which at least might have provided him with an excuse for instead just watching Molly instead, because that was plainly what he was doing. Her eyes sparking, her smile widening - proudly, delightedly - at Rosie’s progress and irrefutable all-round infant brilliance. 

“Give her a kiss from me and tell her I’ll take her out somewhere soon,” Molly said, handing back John’s phone. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” John replied. “She’d probably like a day out with both of her godparents, actually.”

He aimed the briefest of glances in Sherlock’s direction, and Sherlock got the impression that this was some sort of cue that he was supposed to act on. He almost said something about Rosie having three godparents - that Mrs Hudson was in Brighton, not in the grave - but caught himself at the last second. He was after all, enduring this social gathering for a reason, and pedantry probably wasn’t going to help in that regard. 

“Anyway!” John said, clapping his hands together and giving Sherlock a pointed look. “I’ll see you two shortly.”

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock said, a spike of anxiety seizing him as John started to walk away from the table. “Where are you going?” he hissed, placing his body in John’s path as subtly as he could, which didn’t feel very subtle at all. 

“I,” John said briskly, loud enough so Molly could hear, “am going to go and talk to women.” He leaned towards Sherlock as he added, “It would be a really good idea for you to do the same.”

As John set off purposely to attempt to charm unsuspecting women, or whatever it was he was hoped to achieve, Sherlock turned back to Molly. On doing so, he felt a sort of dizzying effect akin to standing up too quickly; she looked beautiful, hopeful, and Sherlock knew he couldn't afford to catastrophically balls this up.

"It was nice of you to come," she said, tucking an errant strand of hair back into place. "It's not really your kind of thing, is it?"

"Not generally, no," Sherlock replied, opting for understatement. "But I like Mike - and I should probably show him some belated gratitude for finding me a flatmate all those years ago. Although I'm starting to have second thoughts about that."

"So you're definitely not expecting a murder, then?" Molly asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Chance would be a fine thing," Sherlock replied, adding a sigh for effect. 

Molly smiled, her fingers toying with the base of her empty wine glass.

"I...I was actually just going to get another drink," she said, briefly glancing over her shoulder towards the bar.

"I would offer you mine," Sherlock said. "But I suspect you then wouldn't like me very much anymore."

There followed a slightly awkward silence, during which time Sherlock considered severing his own vocal cords, and Molly, he could see, was shifting a little uncomfortably, a blush rising in her cheeks. He should probably say something. This would be the time that he would confess why he had come there that evening, and that this whole awful charade could end one way or another. But instead...

"Crisps?" Sherlock blurted.

"What?" Molly asked, with what was justified confusion. 

"Do you...would you like some crisps?" Sherlock repeated, doubling down. "I don't actually have any on me...not today, anyway. I meant from the bar."

"Oh. Yes. I’d love some, actually - I’m starving," Molly said, clearly relieved to be on more certain ground. 

They made their way to the bar, Sherlock resisting the now almost instinctual urge to place a hand at the small of Molly’s back, or gently on her shoulder. When Molly looked over her shoulder to smile at him, he felt for a second as though he had been caught.

“What can I get you?” the young, tattooed barman asked them, as they squeezed between two stools to stand at the bar. 

“Just a pineapple juice, pleased,” Molly said. Looking up at Sherlock, she added, “I’ve got the early shift tomorrow.”

He thought it best not to tell her that he knew the intricacies of her shift-pattern. Instead, he nodded in response, before addressing the barman. 

“One pineapple juice, one packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps and a pot of tea - thank you.”

“Sorry, did you say tea?” the barman asked, a slightly half-witted expression on his face.

“Yes, a pot of tea,” Sherlock repeated. “Is there a problem?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Molly suppressing a smile. 

“No, mate, no,” the barman said, shrugging. “Pot of tea on a Friday night, perfectly normal.”

As he set a small teapot under the hot drinks machine, the expression on the barman’s face changed again.

“Wait a second, I know you!” he said, causing Sherlock’s heart to sink several inches. “You’re that detective - Sherlock Holmes! I thought you looked familiar, but couldn’t place it. Think it’s because I’m used to seeing you in the paper with that other bloke - the short one, greyish hair. Hey - can you do that thing to me?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Do what thing?”

“You know - where you tell people stuff about themselves just by looking at them.”

Oh wonderful. It was gratifying to know that the great British public saw him as somewhere between a table magician and a cheap psychic. Sherlock exchanged glances with Molly; her lips were pursed in a suppressed smile, clearly at his expense. He could think of a few choice words for the barman, but his first thought was Molly, how she would view that kind of response. 

“Fine,” he told the barman, through a tight smile. 

The barman stood, arms by his side, as though Sherlock’s gaze was an airport body-scanner. He looked ridiculous, and Molly clearly thought so, too, as Sherlock could hear her giggling. Sherlock tilted his head, putting one finger to his lips, pretending to consider him. After as short a time as he could get away with, he snapped back upright again.

“Nope,” he said, quickly shaking his head.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” the barman asked, returning to a more normal posture. 

“I mean no, nothing,” Sherlock elaborated, with a sigh. “I tried. I couldn’t. I don’t know what it is, but you’re utterly inscrutable.” 

The barman looked predictably smug about this, handing over their drinks and the crisps with a self-satisfied smile. As soon as their backs were to the bar and they were walking away, Molly took her drink from Sherlock’s outstretched hand, and leaned slightly closer to him.

“Was that true?” she asked in a stage-whisper. 

Sherlock snorted.

“Of course not,” he told her. “He has less than fifty pounds in his bank account, is currently living in his car - using the pine air freshener as an alternative to deodorant - and in close proximity to a dog, probably a Golden Labrador. Most likely kicked out of his house by his girlfriend, who now doubt has recently discovered his chronic gambling habit.”

He saw Molly’s eyes widen as she clapped a hand to her mouth to prevent the laughter escaping. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked, when she has sufficiently recovered. 

“I didn’t want him to spit in my tea,” Sherlock replied. “Or worse.”

Still smiling, Molly led them to a snug in the corner that had just been vacated, glancing around at Sherlock as though to check that this was okay with him. They slid onto the banquette bench, which curved around a small dark-wood table, and set down their drinks. Once they had both shed their coats, Molly split open the packet of crisps along the seam, splaying it out on the table so that they could share. Sherlock watched her absentmindedly lick some salt from her thumb.

“Feels like I haven’t seen you much recently,” she said, a little hesitantly. “Apart from just in passing. I mean, not enough to have much of a conversation.”

Sherlock stirred his tea, but didn’t yet take a sip. She’d noticed, then. It suddenly seemed idiotic to have thought she might not have done. 

“Well, you know - busy,” Sherlock replied, trying to swallow this half-truth. “People will insist on being murdered; Scotland Yard will insist on being utterly ineffectual.”

“You missed an interesting post-mortem earlier in the week,” Molly continued. “Transport Police found this bloke at the bottom of the escalator at Bethnal Green station at 2am, no witnesses, no sign of any struggle, but he did have a head injury. When they checked the CCTV, it showed that he’d tried to run up the down escalator, slipped, fallen most of the way down, and hit his head at the bottom. But that wasn’t what killed him.”

Molly looked quietly delighted with her anecdote, and Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, finding himself happy to indulge her. 

“Go on.”

“Well, it turned out there was a reason for him running,” she smiled, snagging another crisp from the packet. “And when he fell, the impact made him bring up the six bags of cocaine he had swallowed in an attempt to hide them from a very angry dealer. Except, it wasn’t actually cocaine - he just thought it was. So he ended up dying from a massive overdose of hydrated magnesium silicate.”

“Baby powder?” 

“Yup!”

Sherlock smiled, one eyebrow raised.

“You definitely should have texted me, if only so I could see what someone quite that stupid looks like.”

Molly returned his smile, and then both went for the crisp packet at the same time, Sherlock quickly giving way, but noticing that Molly had deliberately left him the largest crisp. Usually, he loathed sharing food (the attempt he and John once made to eat tapas almost ended in a punch-up), but there was a pleasing intimacy about splitting a packet of crisps with Molly, which were very soon demolished.  
“How are your family?” Molly asked, chasing crisp dust across the packet with her finger. 

“Oh, they’re appalling,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes.

Molly looked quizzically at him, then gave a short laugh.

“No, I meant...you know, how are they now, after…”

“Oh, right, yes, I see!” Sherlock said hastily. 

He should have realised that Molly would be asking after the welfare of his parents; despite having never met them, it was just the sort of thing she would do. The months that had passed had gone some way to healing the wounds in the Holmes family, but it had got worse before it got better, and Sherlock had not especially enjoyed the role of mediator that had, by default, fallen to him. It was going to take a while before they all got used to the changed dynamics. But he didn’t want to talk about this now, even though he knew Molly would be happy to listen. 

“They are well, thank you, Molly,” he told her. “Although my parents’ idea of bringing the family together involves rather more matinees than either Mycroft or I would prefer.”

Which reminded him - he still needed to find a way to get out of Jesus Christ Superstar on Saturday. Faking your own death is something you could really only get away with once. 

“How about you?” Sherlock added, realising he didn't really know where he was heading with this. “How is...Toby?”

To his relief, Molly didn’t take offence at this clumsy implication that she was alone in life except for her cat, and instead giggled.

“He’s fine, thank you,” she replied. “Although I think he misses you. Or maybe it was just that you sometimes smelled of fish and chips when you came round.”

The fact that Molly spoke of this in the past tense immediately filled him with an acute sadness. He missed it, too - all of it, even the bloody cat. Looking back on that time - after Meat Dagger was out of the picture, and before Mary died - Sherlock realised how much he had come to rely on Molly’s flat as a bolthole. Well, at first it was a bolthole, but very soon it wasn’t a last resort but the place he would think of first; no longer a hiding place, but a sanctuary. He could see now that his turning up at all times of night probably wasn’t very fair on Molly, but she never turned him away; her hospitality was just one in a long list of things that he had taken for granted. 

“So...is there really a black-ops babysitter looking after Rosie tonight?” Molly asked, one eyebrow raised in sceptical amusement.

“Highly trained in three different types of martial arts,” Sherlock told her. “Probably still no match for Rosamund at bathtime, though.”

Molly smiled.

“Mary set a pretty tough standard,” she said. “Three types of martial arts would be a bare minimum.”

Sherlock found himself smiling, too, acknowledging how easy it was to think about Mary in Molly’s presence, without the overwhelming feelings of guilt flooding in. It had taken him a long time to realise that at the same time that he was tearing himself apart with shame and guilt, Molly must have been quietly, privately, grieving for the loss of Mary, too - and coming to terms with the things she never knew about Mary while she was alive. But he had been far too self-involved to consider any of that. 

When he looked up again at Molly, he found her regarding him closely; when she realised Sherlock had noticed, she glanced away, but only momentarily. Sherlock could tell that she wanted to say something, and he suddenly felt as though she knew exactly why he was there that night, and every other secret of his heart that he had been keeping from her for the past six months (give or take seven years).

“Sherlock,” she began, her tone gentle but her gaze unyielding. “What are we doing?”

There were a hundred and one flippant answers he could give to that question - and would give, if it was any other human being sitting in front of him. 

“Chatting…?” he offered eventually; it was cowardly, but at least it was technically true.

“Chatting,” Molly echoed, nodding. 

“Yes,” Sherlock continued. “...Am I not doing it right?”

At this, Molly smiled, but she hadn’t lost that air of purpose. 

“It’s just...it’s not something you usually do. That...that we do. It’s nice, but...”

In the silence that followed - when he failed to offer an immediate explanation - Sherlock thought he could sense her disappointment, but even worse, the sense that she hadn’t expected anything different. The competing voices in his brain were frenziedly arguing their respective cases, but to Sherlock’s frustration, none of them seemed to be winning out. 

With a feeling of dread, he saw Molly check her watch.

“I’d, um, I should probably go,” she said. “Early start tomorrow. But hope I’ll see you in the lab soon?”

Sherlock nodded dumbly, watching helplessly as Molly put on her coat, went to give a quick goodbye hug to Stamford, and then started threading her way through the drinkers towards the door. His knee bounced anxiously under the table as he wrestled with his indecision. The battling voices were still there - but then, suddenly, clearly, he could hear one that sounded very much like Mary Watson. 

Almost overturning the table in his haste, Sherlock flailed his way back into his Belstaff and unrepentantly elbowed his way through the crowds until he could throw himself through the heavy double doors and onto the pavement. Molly hadn’t made it very far towards the Tube - in fact, his somewhat undignified pub exit had caused her to turn around, and now she was looking both surprised and slightly worried. 

Before he really knew what was happening, he was talking. 

“I think getting up there will be good for John and Rosie,” he blurted. “After all, Rosie has never really seen the countryside, and I vaguely heard something about fresh air being beneficial for infants.”

Molly stayed rooted to the spot, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open. It was then that Sherlock realised that the first part of the intended conversation had actually only happened in his head. 

“Stamford’s house,” he quickly clarified. “He was talking about John going up there to visit - probably invited everyone in the pub by now. I think he might have mentioned that he’d invited you, too?”

“Oh,” replied Molly, looking perhaps ten per cent less confused. “Yes. It sounds really nice. I’m going to really try to go - it’s ages since I’ve been away. You should really think about it, too, Sherlock - I...I think it might be good for you.”

Deciding that he’d gone too far to turn back now, he hurled himself forward. 

“We could go together,” he ventured. “I suppose. I mean, I’m sure Mike has sufficient guest space. Or I assume he does. If he doesn’t, I’m sure it wouldn’t be an insurmountable problem - there are bound to be options.”

He had the horrible feeling that now he’d started down this terrifying route, he had no choice but to keep talking, and could still be doing it until the end of time (or at least until he lost consciousness) to prevent Molly from ever giving a response that he wasn’t equipped to handle. 

“Options?” she replied. 

Sherlock couldn’t tell if this was confusion or...flirtation? Either way, he blushed the blush of a man entirely out of his depth. 

Molly took a step towards him, out of the way of the Friday night revellers making their way through Smithfield. 

“You...want us to go together?” she queried, pulling at the end of her coat sleeve. “Sherlock, what’s...sorry, what’s this about? I mean, it’s really nice of you to suggest it, but...it’s not the sort of thing you do, is it? Go on holiday?”

“Well, not since 1993, no,” he admitted. “And, thinking about it, that was really more of an intervention than a holiday - but this is...it’s different. It’s you. And me...If you wanted to.”

Molly took another step closer, shifting her bag on shoulder again.

“You and me,” she said, seeking confirmation. “Not...not with John and Rosie, or-?”

“No, because John talks too much, and if our goddaughter was there I would rather worry that you would be far too enamoured and distracted by her to…”

He trailed off - but he wasn’t going to get away with that.

“To...what?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, just looked at her, blinking like a madman. Eventually - when it started to get ridiculous - he took a deep breath.

“Forgive me, Molly, I didn’t expect to have to do this in the middle of the street, and I know it’s by no means ideal,” he started. “I have spent the past few months trying to work out how to get things back to the way they were before...before Eurus. And it took me far too long to realise that it was never going to work - not any longer, not...acknowledging how I felt. How I feel.”

He was afraid to look at Molly, but when he did, he saw her listening patiently - perhaps slightly disbelieving - and he found the courage to persevere. 

“What was there before, the friendship we had - it was vital to me, and at times it kept me sane, and it reigned in my uglier demons, although you might not have known it, but now the thought of the limitations that came with that friendship just make me...sad.”

Molly swallowed hard, but she kept her composure. Her pride, not to mention his track-record of trampling all over her feelings, ensured it. 

“What...what are you saying, Sherlock?” she asked, carefully.

“It’s not enough,” he blurted, caution now thrown firmly to the wind. “Is it? Any longer? I want...I want to try. Molly, if you’ll permit it, if you can bring yourself to put your faith in me one more time - admittedly with something I know literally nothing about - I want to try.”

She was silent for an agonisingly long moment, her eyes flickering over his face, scrutinising him in a way that only Molly could. Sherlock's instinct was to look away, avoid the intensity of it, but he knew he couldn't, he mustn't. Molly needed to really see him. 

Then, slowly, her eyes on him the whole time, Molly came closer still, and as they stood facing each other, Sherlock felt her fingers gently reach for his. She squeezed his hand softly, and Sherlock couldn’t help but glance down at their joined hands, immediately struck by the feeling that this was something entirely new - and the exhilaration of what it meant. He was allowed to, could finally permit himself to, accept and return this. 

Molly looked up at him, biting lightly on her bottom lip.

“You meant it.”

Not a question, just confirmation of what he’d wanted but completely failed to express to her over the past few months, what she already knew. 

Sherlock nodded solemnly.

“I’m sorry.”

At this, Molly laughed softly.

“Why?”

“Because I took so long. Because I wasn’t honest with you,” he replied. “And because this is the most important conversation I’m going to have in my life, and twenty feet away there’s a man in a tracksuit urinating behind a bin.”

This time, Molly muffled a snigger with her free hand.

“I don’t care,” she told him, still grinning. 

Something seemed to shift, and Sherlock found himself - finally - smiling, too; weeks and months of burden, tension and hopelessness seemed to just melt away. Slowly, Molly closed the remaining distance between them; still grasping his hand in hers, she reached up at the same time as Sherlock dipped down, and then they were kissing. It was gentle and incredibly tender, and as Molly’s lips moved with his, he noted the sweet-sharpness of the pineapple juice and the tang of salt. Perhaps it was a little too gentle for Molly’s liking, as she soon arched up into the kiss, her hand on Sherlock’s chest and his hand moving to cradle the back of her head. 

When they finally broke apart, Sherlock exhaled deeply, keeping his eyes closed as a feeling of ease, relief and a fizzing euphoria diffused through his chest. On opening his eyes, he saw Molly looking up at him with a quizzical smile - she was clearly quite pleased with the effect that she had had on him. Or perhaps just relieved that he hadn’t done some sort of reverse fairytale transformation and started hopping off towards Smithfield Market. 

So there could be no possible room for doubt (and because, quite frankly, it was the greatest thing he had done in his adult life), Sherlock leaned in again, pressing another kiss to Molly’s lips and feeling her respond in kind, her fingers gripping the arms of his coat. This time when they parted, Sherlock noticed something distract Molly’s gaze for a second; something somewhere behind him. She tried to hide it from him, but it was obvious she was biting down on a smile. He narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips as he studied her for clues.

Of course.

“They’re watching out of the window, aren’t they?” he sighed.

Molly gave a tiny nod, which spilled over into laughter when she looked at his expression. Then Sherlock plainly heard the sound of banging on the glass, accompanied by muffled cheers. Slowly, grudgingly, Sherlock turned around to the inevitable sight of John and Mike Stamford more or less filling an entire window, both of them grinning like idiots and giving them (or more likely, him) a double thumbs-up. 

“Well, we nearly got through the evening without a murder,” Sherlock commented. “Except it now looks like there’s going to be two. Any suggestions?”

Molly raised an eyebrow.

“I can think of a few,” she smiled. “Plus I know some really excellent places to hide a body.”

Sherlock cracked a smile of his own; this really was the very best life decision he had ever made. 

Giving some consideration to what he could do to adequately exact revenge on John Watson, Sherlock’s thoughts were interrupted by the tug of Molly’s fingers at his collar, pulling him down for another deep kiss. 

“I know I’ve got to work early tomorrow,” she said, slipping her hand into his again. “But I think we should make time to talk about those ‘options’ you mentioned earlier. What do you reckon?”

Sherlock felt his heart answer the question before his brain could fully consider it. 

“Agreed,” he replied. “‘Options’ first, murder later.”

Molly tilted her head slightly, her eyes gleaming. 

“Well, tonight, anyway,”  
Sherlock gave a chuff of laughter. Tomorrow, he’d have to deal with John, followed by, at some point, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and half of Scotland Yard, and - God help him - Mycroft and his parents, all of which was going to be excruciating and would involve much hilarity at his expense. But tomorrow was a price well worth paying for tonight.

Feeling a slight tug on his hand, Sherlock willingly, contentedly, followed Molly Hooper into the London night. 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who’s read Molly’s blog might vaguely remember Molly writing about an annoying woman called Caroline, who apparently kept going on about a hedge. I don’t put much stock in that blog (in terms of Molly’s character), but having already pilfered both Meena and Toby for many other fics, I felt it was finally the turn of Caroline-the-hedge-bore! 
> 
> Also, the pineapple juice is a shameless crossover nod to the beverage choices of a certain Arthur Shappey. Meeting John Finnemore a few months' back was one of the highlights of 2019!


End file.
